


language, dear

by heygorgeous



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Accents, Angst, Fluff, Languages, Light Angst, M/M, Texting, a bit of, also i have zero plot thank, slight racism, this spun out of control omfg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heygorgeous/pseuds/heygorgeous
Summary: Headcanon: when Yuuri moves to Detroit and learns English, he encounters the word "goodbye". He learns it the way Japanese is structured - 'good' as an adjective, and 'bye' as the dismissal. So when he's still picking up the language and meets a rude person he can't bring it in himself to swear. Instead, he vehemently says "bye" bc he thinks that is a sign of negativity.





	

**Author's Note:**

> holy cow ok so i had this sudden headcanon because god it's so cute????? and yuuri cant bring himself to full out swear so he thinks he's being passive-aggressive
> 
> can u imagine   
> phichit is like "damn yuuri u chill af even when the dude was being mean"   
> and yuuri is like "no??? did u hear how i flipped the guy off??? i said BYE"  
> yuuri: "instead of GOODbye"
> 
> omg im done rip

Yuuri moves to Detroit when he’s eighteen, with barely a lick of English under his belt. He’s fine with the rudimentary stuff, the kind of things found in tests, like, “This is a pen” or “I prefer pineapple”. But when it comes down to actually speaking the language, or listening fervently for gossip, instructions, directions and the like, Yuuri’s better off making weird symbols with his hands or referring to pictures.

He’s fine with that, or so he thinks – Yuuri isn’t exactly the life of the party, nor an experienced conversationalist; he’s used to silence, enjoys the quiet of early mornings in between school buildings. Even if he needs to read a map, he learns to identify the shape of letters, and would prefer that instead of actually approaching someone for help. So for the time being, Yuuri’s simply navigating this foreign landscape by himself, fingers tracing the outline of trees and paths on his outer thigh, feeling like he’s choreographing a new routine for himself-

_‘Like Viktor.’_

He shakes himself out of the thought. The sheer audacity.  The Russian skater is a living legend, and as much as Yuuri wants to, _needs_ to skate on the same ice as him one day, he’ll never be on equal footing with Viktor Nikiforov.

_

Yuuri realises, abashedly, that Viktor is multilingual; Phichit, his roommate, tangles himself up in a mix of Thai and English in a bid to explain, before deciding to stuff the magazine in Yuuri’s confused face. He’s almost surprised that he missed this fact – he’s the one with his bedroom wall covered in Viktor’s posters (with one creeping in on Phichit’s side of the room). But the newly dog-eared shine of the cover makes him think that Phichit might have just snatched this off the stands for Yuuri’s sake. He’s touched.

But that’s not the point. Phichit gestures wildly at the page. “Look! Look! Your Viktor!”

Yuuri nods, flushing.

Viktor’s got Russian, French, and English mastered. An assortment, no, an _arsenal_ of alphabets, letters, tongue-twisters ready. The curves and slants of each language flaunting, glinting knowingly as Viktor skates them eloquently on ice, a familiar calling – an expression so worldly it becomes otherworldly.

 _‘Some words can’t be found in Japanese_ ,’ Yuuri muses, ‘ _after all._ ’

He looks up into Phichit’s proud smile, and smiles back. He’ll pick up English soon enough.

_

Yuuri is patient, determined, and resolved on ice. Skating clears his mind, lifts him into a reverie, tunes the other gibberish out; he’s composed, of nothing but the steady whirl of skates against the ice, of lines and lines and lines weaving a steady soundless. There’s something uncluttering about dancing on ice. Something soothing. By evading all possible forms of language he has avoided confrontations, avoided accusations or meaningless slurs. He is safest here, in a language unstrained by its barriers, a nothingness so broad it could fit everything in its palms.

Celestino yells for him. When Yuuri obediently makes his way to the side of the rink, he sighs, and scratches the bottom of his chin for a suitable way to communicate with Yuuri. “Ah, how do I put this…?”

Yuuri waits, but when Celestino doesn’t seem to be able to say anything, he tries a soft, “Yes, sir?”

Celestino pauses, a light coming into his eyes, before he’s rattling off with comments about Yuuri’s skating. Yuuri tries his best to pick out words he’d seen before in the dictionary or at least, commonplace skating terms. But when Celestino realises that Yuuri isn’t quite catching up, he sighs. “Triple axel, best. You, centre yourself. Focus when jumping.”

Yuuri nods seriously. “Yes, sir.”

Celestino sighs.

_

When Phichit makes his way over to Celestino, demanding his attention, Yuuri notices the way Phichit is able to talk to Celestino. Something about his upper body keeping pace with his expressive footwork, and something about keeping a good height while jumping. Phichit maintains eye-contact throughout, and whines a little to Celestino. The coach laughs his antics off, and pats Phichit hard on the back. Yuuri swallows.

Next practice, Phichit’s improved by leaps and bounds, though he’s ironically still lacking in his jumps. Yuuri buckles right down to learn the language.

_

He stays up, downloads a folder full of applications to learn English best as he can, and patiently echoes after the automated voice. While he’s all hushed up about this, Phichit bursts into the room, a string of bright pink feathers laced around his shoulders. Yuuri turns around, and swears Phichit brought a whirlwind of glitter and confetti along with him too.

“Party!” Phichit shouts. “Yuuri, what’re you doing?”

“I’m learning to speak English,” Yuuri says slowly, but with a tint of pride.

It works; Phichit’s inebriated eyes widen in awe. “Oh my god, Yuuri, my man. Wait, you know what, you know, we should totally go to this party Jessica’s got, and you’ll speak to so many people. You’ll wow them.”

Yuuri tries to protest, clutching his phone and scrambling up against the headboard of his bed. “N-no, thank you.”

“Nonsense! Come, you can’t be holed up here all week. Let’s goooooooo, Yuuri,” Phichit cries, threatening to climb onto Yuuri’s bed, a shower of glitter already making its way onto the bottom of his mattress.

For the sake of his blankets and pillows, Yuuri reluctantly agrees.

_

The party doesn’t not go well. It’s not just because Phichit’s parading Yuuri around like a proud flamingo mother and her slightly-less-flamboyant son, although that certainly doesn’t help.

The music is too loud, the people are too rowdy, everyone’s mocking his accent, and Yuuri never ever wants to speak. So he slinks away to the bar, and gulps down glasses of champagne. The rest, he doesn’t remember.

_

Over the course of the next few days, Yuuri is too miffed to speak about the night, and Phichit too hung-over to notice anything. But the peace doesn’t last for long; Yuuri’s drunken stupor that night comes back to haunt him in the form of a text.

_UNKNOWN NUMBER_

(1245) yo mike here

(1245) sflr took me forever to recover from the hangover

(1246) you were great that night haha ;)

 

Yuuri doesn’t recognise the number, much less understand certain letters, but bites at the opportunity to practice.

 

_YOU_

(1315) Sorry, I think you have wrong number.

 

_UNKNOWN NUMBER_

(1315) woah rly

(1315) ur japanese dude right

(1316) phichits dude

 

Yuuri almost drops his phone.

 

_YOU_

(1318) Yes. I do not remember you.

 

_UNKNOWN NUMBER_

(1318) o dam

(1318) shit were u that drunk ;)

 

Yuuri thinks this must be a prank. He shows Phichit the texts, and Phichit barely drowns out a howl of laughter before grabbing Yuuri’s phone and replying.

 

_YOU_

(1320) MIEK MY MAN

 

_UNKNOWN_

(1320) phichit??????? that u????

 

_YOU_

(1320) ya

(1320) what u trying to hit on yuuri for

 

_UNKNOWN_

(1320) ;))))))))

(1321) no kidding tho bring him for dance prac

(1321) The Guys want to See him

(1321) he was Good at jess party

(1321) y have u been hiding those moves from us phichit

(1322) u snek :(((((((((

 

_YOU_

(1322) ;))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

_

For some reason Yuuri finds himself trying out pole dancing and several breakdancing classes with a gang of hyperactive foster-brothers. They call each other ‘bro’ (which is ‘brother’ for short, Yuuri deduces), and love to hear Yuuri talk about Japan. But as much as Yuuri would like to share about _katsudon_ , or about _onsens_ and his beloved dog, Vicchan, Yuuri can’t really find the right words. He talks, instead, about “pig cooked, rice, egg and onion” and “big bathtubs, hot water”, and the universal love, “dog”.

They laugh at his words, but pay rapt attention when he motions how he fell in love with figure skating, fingers working at an invisible ponytail, trailing down to show how the strands of hair spun quicksilver against the wind.

“Viktor Nikiforov,” Yuuri summarises, slightly smug at the way the other guys were impressed by his subpar impressions of the Russian legend.

_

Somehow, Yuuri’s admiration for Viktor gets out, and almost every day his dance gang is reading out snippets of interviews for him, showing him old magazine cut-outs (he already had those, just translated) and online articles or posts about Viktor. Yuuri starts out embarrassed, but greedily absorbs every detail and information he can get.

Phichit slyly points out that, “Ohh, Yuuri, your English’s gotten better.”

(Yuuri launches a pillow right into his face.)

_

Yuuri gets better at skating, and Celestino is relieved to learn that the Japanese kid in town finally learnt some English. The only thing now, is to work on his confidence. Celestino sends him for confidence-building classes and theatre 101, and makes Phichit message him wikihow links on how to control his breathing and keep a level head.

Confidence-building lessons are thoroughly misleading. If anything, he feels even more like crap. The instructor is a tree-hugging hippie with a penchant for playing distractingly beautiful music in the background. He insists that Yuuri say things like “I believe in myself” aloud in English, in front of a room of people all younger than him. Yuuri can barely get the words out, embarrassed by the activity and his accent. It doesn’t help when the instructor corrects Yuuri’s pronunciation every single time.

Theatre, however, is easier done than said. Yuuri likes the feel of physical theatre more than what is termed “less abstract theatre”. Drama has him butchering lines that no sane American would use nowadays (he knows it’s Shakespeare, but.) in his Japanese accent, and voice projection is a mythical ancient torture, if anything. Physical theatre is a bit more like dancing, which is why he settles comfortably into that, finding a way to master story-telling without having to ruin the magic with things like grammar or clauses.

Celestino notes that Yuuri’s still in a rut. A shell. Hiding. But Yuuri thinks bitterly, that he’s already reaching out to the world. There are just some words that can’t be found in English, after all.

_

Yuuri erases the Grand Prix Finals from his memories. He hangs his skates up behind hangers of thick winter jackets.

_

Instead, he binge-watches Viktor’s clips, digging up videos from years ago, when he still had long hair. He watches, and watches, and finds his forefinger tracing Viktor’s choreography against his outer thigh. They don’t come close to forming any coherent alphabet, but it’s not like Yuuri’s good at _languages_ , of all things. It could be Russian, or French, or even, _English_. And then he smacks himself on the head, because why the heck is he analysing Viktor Nikiforov’s routine like it’s a conspiracy theory? The next thing he knows, he could be listening to the number of times Viktor taps his skate against the ice, counting the beats to decode the Morse.

Yuuri laughs at himself. Because he just _knows_ that Viktor’s skating a language unlike any other. He has to – he’s always surprising, always breaking through the records he’s set for himself. Viktor’s never been confined by the mechanics of anything, never haunted by any cliché. Yuuri knows that.

The next morning, he digs around his closet for his skates, and goes to the nearest rink.

_

Yuuri reopens Duolingo, and attempts to learn Russian.

_

_MIKE FROM DETROIT_

(0339) bro

(0340) b r uh

(0340) is it true?????????? that ur viktor went to find u??

(0340) shit this is some tv drama  l m a o

(0340) omg pls

(0340) o wait it’s 3 there

(0341) anyway tell me when yall get mrried ;)

(0341) married*****

_

In the past weeks, Yuuri’s showed Viktor _katsudon_ , his dog’s shrine, as well as a sweeping tour of the _onsen_ s. Viktor leans in, too close for comfort, every time, repeating what Yuuri says with a twinkle of the eye. At times, he’d randomly blurt out those words, mixing Japanese with Russian and English, unabashed and terribly at ease with his own voice. Yuuri’s jealous of his confidence, but also so, so happy that Viktor is here.

“So, Yuuri,” Viktor says, and for the umpteenth time, Yuuri can’t believe that he’s actually here. “What do you want me to be? A father figure?”

(Yuuri mentally slaps the image of Phichit and Mike cooing, “ooh, _daddy_ ” out of his mind)

“A brother? A lover -?”

Yuuri snaps. He can’t see the point of all these labels, when all he really needs is, “I just want Viktor to be Viktor!”

And even though that doesn’t make any sense logically, Yuuri knows that it’s exactly what he _means_ : Viktor’s smiling at him, rising to his feet, meeting him where he opens. The words don’t matter so much – they’re both foreigners to a language that’s also given them home.  

_

Sometimes they fight. Yuuri doesn’t like to compromise on his anger by slotting out words, decking out cutting phrases with an intent to hurt, especially not in English. Especially not at Viktor. But something unknots itself from his throat; a lifetime of “just breathe”s and “say it one more time”s and “you can do it if you _try_ ”s lunges out, prying past the silence.

Because Yuuri _is_ patient, determined, and resolved off the ice too. “Why would _you_ say that like you’re trying to test me?”

And Viktor- Viktor _understands_.

_

Yuuri calls it a “good luck charm”.

Viktor translates (with a flourish): “an engagement ring”.

_

The first time Yuuri is uncomfortable with silence is the one he’s been presented with when Viktor tucks himself into bed, and rolls over so his back is facing Yuuri. It’s so uneasily still – Viktor’s not even rocking with choked or muffled sobs, or at least snoring off the exhaustion of their argument. Instead, Viktor’s just there – a pale figure under the covers, stiff and disappointed.

Yuuri takes it upon himself to slide into bed next to him and switch off the lamps. The darkness makes it easier for him to deal with. And even though they decided they’d make their own choices after the Free Skate, even though they decided to call it a night when the conversation stopped being one, Yuuri can’t help but want to reach out to Viktor again.

So he does, tentatively, placing a hand around Viktor’s waist. Viktor doesn’t flinch, but then again, Viktor doesn’t move – Yuuri swallows, keeping his breathing light for fear of ruining whatever this is. Whatever this will be.

He’s broken down so many times, he’s almost too familiar with the excruciating boredom of piecing himself together, combing his fingers through reckless thoughts and embarrassingly bruised knuckles. But this is different. This is something so shamefully fragile – this is something he _minds_ breaking, even if that means it will grow back to become something stronger. This is _Viktor._

So he traces Viktor’s routine on Viktor’s stomach, an apology.

 _‘Stay close to me,’_ Yuuri thinks. _‘Stay close to me.’_

Viktor places a hand over Yuuri’s restless one. _‘Stay close to me.’_

_

“I really want to kiss that gold medal.” really means “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

_

Yuuri moves to St Petersburg when he’s twenty-four, with barely a lick of Russian under his belt ( _figuratively, of course_ ). He’s fine with the rudimentary stuff, the kind of things he’s caught Viktor saying, like, “my love” or “you’re beautiful”. But when it comes down to actually speaking the language, or listening fervently for gossip, instructions, directions and the like, Yuuri’s better off referring to pictures courtesy of Viktor’s Instagram, or actually, just Viktor himself.

He still keeps Duolingo on his phone – for his own practice whenever Viktor’s too busy to teach him the Russian tongue – because even though they call everything on the ice “love”, Yuuri’s not about to mix up a quad flip and a triple axel _again_.

**Author's Note:**

> all them innuendos ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) russian tongue huh ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)  
> i hope u like it !!!!!! more language fics pls


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